


Popsicles and Mashed Potatoes

by delighted



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Comfort, Domestic, Feelings, Getting Together, Introspection, M/M, Sickfic, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 18:00:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13980471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delighted/pseuds/delighted
Summary: Danny’s taking care of Charlie while he’s sick, but then of course Danny gets sick too. So, guess who comes to help out?





	Popsicles and Mashed Potatoes

**Author's Note:**

> This one’s slow and sleepy and domestic and, I almost want to say, “practical.” It has no business being as long as it is; it just kept going, and I didn’t have the heart to stop it.... Hope you’re all in good health—and if not, maybe this will comfort you a little. <3
> 
> (I'm behind on the show again, so... shhhhh.)

The kids have both been sick. Not the flu, thank god, but a particularly unpleasant cold that just won’t go away, and it’s on day three, when Danny calls Rachel to check on them, that he hears, immediately, that she now has it and is already on the verge of buckling under the strain. So of course he offers to take Charlie, and it says something, he thinks, about how unpleasant this one is, that she doesn’t even hesitate.

Grace is like Rachel in illness. They both line up their treatment, attack the virus head on with a battle strategy that shifts as their symptoms do, always ready with the next systematic approach, designed to be the most effective at getting results, and if the solution is somewhat brutal, it only goads them on to health the more.

Charlie, on the other hand, gets his approach to being sick from his dad. He goes lax and placid, sinks into the bed or the sofa, pulling blankets around him like a fortress, zoning out to cartoons, eyes glazed over, withdrawn inward.... And as long as you keep him fed on chicken noodle soup, ginger ale, and popsicles, he mostly does okay. He does well on warm baths, steamy showers, warm or cool compresses—tactile things. Medicinal rubs, humidifiers, scented vapors... and _comfort_. A good part of making Charlie (or Danny) better when they’re ill is to simply be with them. Which of course is incredibly draining on the parent, especially when, as is inevitable, they become ill as well. The advantage Danny has over Rachel is that when he gets sick, he wants to cuddle on the sofa, watch Scooby-Doo on endless replay, and wallow—while Rachel can hardly bear to sit still, as though by physically attacking the cold she can banish it sooner.

So it’s ten o’clock at night and Danny’s standing in the medicine aisle of his local grocery store, picking out an assortment of cold treatments, focusing heavily on soothing things like those sore throat lollipops (why hadn’t they had those when he was a kid?); a jar of some herbal cold-soothing bubble bath mix; and a couple bottles of the top-shelf, probably-contains-something-fairly-lethal-but-might-actually-get-you-to-sleep-at-night, all-purpose heavy hitting cold-and-cough stuff that says it’s flavored like “summer berries” but probably tastes more like bubble gum, ugh. Danny _hates_ medicine. Hates the taste, hates the way it feels in his mouth... he was sick a lot as a kid, and just smelling that stuff now makes him gag. But he knows from experience that when it’s three in the morning and your kid can barely breathe you’d pay a literal fortune to have something that would just freaking work. And Danny is determined to be prepared.

He has more fun in the food aisles, filling the cart with soup—the one with the tiny thin noodles because they’re a childhood favorite, heartier cans of rustic chicken noodle because it’s the only way to get protein, and some of the classic ones with the slurpy noodles because it _is_ about comfort. He grabs plain ginger ale and some cranberry-flavored for interest, and a couple bottles of electrolyte-enhanced totally unnaturally-colored drink, just in case. The frozen aisle is last, and after picking a few not-completely-awful options in the “quick, microwave me some food” category, and several pot-pies (again, because _comfort_ ), he lingers over the popsicles, opting for a big box of classic grape-orange-cherry as well as a couple boxes of more organically colored and flavored “real fruit” pops. Then, tossing in an assortment of varying degrees of “please don’t rub my nose off” tissues with various additives, he feels reasonably pleased, and heads for home.

He should probably sleep, but he’s still kind of giddy about getting the extra time with Charlie, even if it is because he’s sick, so he gets the living room set up. He tosses a sheet over the sofa, adds the heating pad, several blankets and pillows, the stuffed animal with the microwavable insert, and even decides to hang twinkly lights over the entertainment center because Charlie usually complains about it being too bright when he’s sick. Then, on a whim, he pulls up his digital movie list and adds two new Scooby-Doos, bringing his total up to seven.

Satisfied with his preparations, and only slightly concerned that it’s past midnight at this point, Danny heads to bed, downing another dose of the not-completely-disgusting herbal preventative he’s been taking. It kept him healthy while the rest of the team shared a mild cold a few weeks back, so he’s optimistic it can help keep him well while Charlie’s with him—though he’ll wind up with Charlie coughing in his face, he knows, and that’s kind of hard to beat, germs so perfectly delivered. But he can hope.

He’d texted Steve after he’d spoken to Rachel, but then forgot to look for a reply, which he sees as he tosses his phone on his nightstand.

_Don’t you get sick too, buddy. Let me know if I can bring you guys anything._

He smiles, imaging taking Steve up on the offer, and drifts off to what’s probably the last peaceful sleep he’ll have for a few days.

In the morning, he goes to get Charlie, who rallies enough in his excitement for some Danno time that he walks to the car on his own. Rachel hasn’t even bothered giving him the usual too-many-things-he-probably-already-has-anyway, and Danny almost feels bad, for one brief moment, for not staying and taking care of her as well.

“You look awful. Get some rest,” he calls as he follows Charlie to the car.

She flips him off and turns to go inside. He grins.

“Alright, buddy, what do you want to do first?”

“Scooby-Doo and popsicles!” Charlie croaks out between coughs, his small grin echoing his dad’s.

It warms Danny’s heart to no end that they have this. Despite everything, Danny and Charlie have a very well established “what we do when we’re sick” routine, and they fall into it with ease and comfort that lasts them through much of the day. They compare all three of the soups, and Danny still prefers the tiny noodles, loves getting a spoonful of them, makes pretend he’s a baleen whale feasting on krill. Charlie likes the classic, longer, slurpable noodles the best. They unanimously decide the maker of the “hearty” soup needs to remember that chicken noodle is only consumed when one is ill, and therefore the heavy hand with the spices was perhaps not the kindest route.

Danny finds he prefers the plain ginger ale, but Charlie falls in love with the cranberry one, and Danny knows, just knows, that Rachel will have his hide for introducing that new treat. He makes a note to next time buy three boxes of the popsicles, because Charlie will only eat the grape ones, and Danny himself has a soft spot for the orange popsicles because they were what he and Rachel “toasted” with in the hospital when Grace was born. They always make him slightly sappy and sentimental, and he thinks he probably tastes that happiness more than the fake orange flavor, but he still likes them.

They don’t make it all the way though any of the movies, because Charlie keeps being reminded of “that one scene in the one with the lake monster when Shaggy and Scooby eat all the Scooby snacks,” so they skip around, and Danny’s never been so grateful for digital movies, because having to get up and switch DVDs, let alone VHS tapes, would have done him in within two hours.

It’s not till it’s starting to get dark out that there’s a lull in their routine. Charlie’s getting a little over-done, and Danny knows he should have seen that coming and done something better to prevent it, but the truth is he got swept away by it as well. Indulging in treats and TV like this, cocooned up with his boy... he could get lost in it. He makes himself a hot toddy, with just a little bit of whiskey, and gets Charlie in the herbal bubble bath, which actually smells really nice, then wraps him up in blankets and puts the whole bundle in the bed next to him, and within not even five minutes the kid is out like a light.

Danny grabs his phone, which he’s completely neglected all day, and sees not one but five messages from Crazy Uncle Steve, in varying degrees of concern for “his boys.” Which doesn’t make Danny’s heart go warm and fuzzy, no, that must be the whiskey. He taps out a conciliatory reply, promising to keep him updated better the next day, and Steve writes back right away: _Get some sleep, buddy, you’ll need it_. Danny reads one chapter of his book, then falls asleep with a smile on his face, one hand resting on Charlie’s back to reassure himself of his breathing.

The bubble bath evidently contained some kind of time-release kid version of cat nip, because it’s very early when Charlie’s up and shaking Danny saying “Popsicles and Scooby-Doo!” and Danny stumbles bleary eyed into the kitchen to try to remember how coffee is made and hopefully convince Charlie that oatmeal and hot cocoa is an okay first course before jumping to popsicles.

Charlie falls asleep half way through the second movie of the day, and Danny sends a quick update to Steve before he drifts fitfully off as well. When he stirs, to find Charlie’s pressed play on movie three, Danny sees Steve’s offer of bringing dinner by, so that Danny eats “something other than noodle soup and sugar.” Torn, for a moment, between wanting to be pampered himself, and not wanting Steve to get sick, and remembering his freezer-full of not-that-horrible microwave meals, he puts Steve off, saying maybe tomorrow if the coughing is less, and gets an immediate _Of course, keep me posted_ back.

They continue the softer trend for the rest of the day, drifting into sleep, rousing for a round of soup and popsicles, watching the movies through rather than jumping around. Danny makes the effort to heat up one of the pot pies for himself and forces himself to down two doses of the herbal preventative because he’s starting to feel that tickle in the back of his throat. It’s almost night when Danny falls asleep, and when he wakes, it’s to find that Charlie’s raided the popsicles and decimated the grape supply. Biting his lip and looking apologetic, it’s Charlie who suggests that maybe Uncle Steve could bring them more?

Danny says maybe and gets Charlie to eat some soup, then asks him if he wants another of the bubble baths, but Charlie’s nearly falling asleep in his noodles, so Danny just puts him to bed. He decides to give the bath stuff a try himself, and it leaves him feeling kind of dopey but nice, and he blames the herbs or whatever for the fact that he sleepily texts Steve and asks if he can, some time the next day, restock them on grape popsicles. _Sure thing, buddy_. Turning over to sleep facing away from Charlie, as if avoiding his germs is even possible at this point, Danny drifts off to dreams of being chased by monsters while trying to make a seriously impressive sandwich.

When Danny begins to stir awake in the morning he wishes fervently that Charlie knew how to work the coffeemaker. Charlie’s up, and playing in his room, which is such a good sign, and of course it makes Danny happy, but he also knows it means their cozy little bubble of contented comfort is nearing an end. And his throat hurts, and his eyes are itchy, and he knows it’s his turn. He’s beginning to sink a little bit into feeling sorry for himself when his phone buzzes. _You guys up?_ He’s tempted to reply _Only if you’re bringing coffee_ , but sticks with _Yep_.

Checking on Charlie, Danny heads for the shower hoping that will somehow make him more functional. It does, vaguely, and he’s dressed and contemplating facing the kitchen when he hears a key in the lock.

“Hey, guys, I come bearing popsicles.”

Charlie appears from his room and excitedly takes the bag from Steve, running towards the kitchen with it.

“Thanks, babe. I really appreciate it. He only likes the grape ones....”

“Aw, man, that’s okay, I only like the cherry ones, so, I understand.”

Danny almost laughs, at the... whatever... of that, that between the three of them, they’d finish a box perfectly.

They follow Charlie into the kitchen, and Steve, without asking, without being asked, sees the coffeemaker is empty and goes to fill and run it. Danny’s heart thumps heavily as the smell of coffee fills the air. Then Steve reaches into the bag—Charlie’s put the popsicles away, but there were other things in it—and makes them all eggs and toast, and they sit at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and hot cocoa; _having breakfast_ , Danny’s mind provides for him, _like a family_.

When Steve gets up to head to work, he kisses Charlie on the head. “Get better fast, buddy, and I’ll take you surfing, okay?”

Looking excited by the prospect, Charlie nods seriously, as though he could have control over the speed of his recovery by force of sheer will. Danny almost thinks he might, if surfing with Uncle Steve is the reward.

Danny gives Steve a level glare, to which Steve somehow decides the appropriate response is also a kiss on the head and an offer to take him surfing as well, of course, Danno.

“I’ll check back in with you guys this evening. Get some rest and try and eat something other than popsicles, okay, buddy?”

“Yes, Uncle Steve,” Charlie replies, dutifully, stopping just short of a salute, as he walks him to the door, leaving Danny standing in his kitchen feeling very warm and tingly in a way he’s not really sure has to do with his impending cold.

After Steve leaves, Danny and Charlie snuggle down for about half of their favorite of the movies before Danny starts to slide toward sleep, rousing chase scene music notwithstanding, and Charlie grows restless and fidgety—and Danny knows that’s good, but he also remembers that it can lead to him overdoing it and getting worse, so he sets a timer and lets Charlie play for a bit while he sits here and rests his eyes for a moment.

He’s holding his phone, because of the timer, so he feels when Steve sends a text.

_I’m bringing dinner. Do you guys want garlic shrimp or roasted chicken?_

Danny almost protests. Almost. But he’s sleepy, he’s feeling like poorly warmed over crud, and dangit, he wants the company. He tries to hate himself for that, and he blames being sick, because he could last for days with Charlie on his own, he could. But breakfast was really nice. Having someone make coffee for him... fuck. That was downright _bliss_. Melissa never stayed the night when the kids were over, and ultimately it was Danny wanting more time with the kids that drove her away, and he’s never managed to regret that. Rachel only drinks tea, and she made it a point to never learn to make coffee. So, Danny’s never had someone make coffee for him, when he’s needed it like that. And Danny and coffee are so intimately intertwined, so maybe it’s not so strange that it’s that small gesture—more than the popsicles and the food... it’s that Steve made him coffee... it’s doing strange things to Danny’s heart, it must be. Because he can’t get past the idea that the thought of Steve bringing them dinner is going to get him through the rest of the day.

_Chicken would be great, babe. Mashed potatoes, too?_

He feels bad for asking, really, he does, but his throat really wants mashed potatoes....

There’s a pause before Steve replies, and Danny feels a stupid shiver of nervous energy that’s probably just the cold working its way deeper inside him, but he feels better when Steve replies _Of course mashed potatoes, what do you take me for, a Neanderthal?_ And Danny makes himself not reply _Yes_.

His timer for Charlie to take a break goes off just then, and Danny realizes he’s hungry. Or at least, the nasal drainage is rumbling in his stomach, so they make some soup and open a fresh packet of soda crackers, pour big glasses of cranberry ginger ale over ice, and settle in to make it all the way through the one new movie they haven’t watched yet. And it’s a bit strange, but surprisingly good, and they both nap after, and Danny finds himself feeling oddly content.

When he wakes sometime later, there are warm and delicious smells coming from his kitchen, and soft sounds of car racing coming from Charlie’s room. He smiles, bemusedly, to himself, pulls the blanket closer about him, and snuggles back down to sleep just a little bit more.

He sleeps longer than just a little, though. And when he startles awake in a fit of coughing, it’s dark out, the twinkly lights are lit, and Steve is sitting in the chair opposite him, book in his lap, mug of something steaming by his side, and the most bewildering expression on his face.

“Charlie’s in bed. He had one of those herbal bubble baths, I read him a story, he’s sleeping soundly. Hungry? I’ve got a plate for you in the oven....”

And the lump in Danny’s throat must be his cold, and his watery eyes as well. They’re not because being taken care of like that feels fucking amazing, and not because of the warm, sweet, tender look on the face of the utterly perplexing man sitting across from him.

“Maybe some tea first?” Danny manages, and the smile that takes over Steve’s face really has no business being linked with making tea. No one gets that happy about making tea.

While Steve is in the kitchen heating water, Danny struggles up to go peek in on Charlie, not because he doesn’t trust Steve—heck, he’s put the kid to bed many times before. But if he’s well enough for all that, he should probably send him home soon—and back to school. And, honestly, a real big part of Danny just doesn’t want to do that. He’s standing in the doorway, watching his boy sleep—and Steve was right, he’s sleeping soundly—when Steve comes up behind him with a mug of herbal cold-soothing tea, and Danny can’t tell if it’s the hot mug of tea, or the heat coming off of Steve that warms him more, but he sighs at the loss of warmth when Steve steps away, so maybe he really does know. He follows Steve back to the living room.

Steve sits down on the sofa, and Danny thinks about saying he should stay further away, but if he’s honest, he wouldn’t mind some physical contact from an adult, and one thing Steve is really great at is being overly physical. And close human contact is really important for your health, and Danny thinks maybe a little bit of cuddling will do him a whole lot of good.

Still, he should at least make an effort to protest....

“Babe, you don’t want to get—”

“Shut up wouldya and come sit down. Finish your tea, then you need to eat something. Wanna watch something that’s not a cartoon?”

Danny chuckles, then coughs. “How’d you guess?”

Steve just grins, and Danny thinks probably Charlie told him... during however long it was that they spent together while he napped. But there’s something in that grin that makes Danny wonder if there isn’t more to it than that, and it makes him feel warm and tingly again. Probably just the cold.... He sits at the other end of the sofa from Steve, but stretches his legs out and Steve pulls them into his lap, draping a blanket over them. The warmth feels really nice, his feet feeling not cold and achy in a way that makes him realize they had been feeling cold and achy.

They wind up watching a couple episodes of classic _Trek_ , including the one with that completely absurd fight with the Gorn, which they have maybe a little too much fun making fun of. Steve makes them both hot toddies, and his are better than Danny’s, but he doesn’t admit that. He does admit that Steve’s mashed potatoes are better than his own.

“Charlie said so too,” Steve confesses, looking sideways at Danny, as though afraid of his response.

“How’d you get Charlie to eat mashed potatoes?”

“Yeah, what’s up with that? What kind of kid doesn’t like mashed potatoes?”

“ _Mine_.... I have no idea what I did wrong, I blame Rachel.”

“Well, either he liked mine, or maybe he only likes them when he’s sick.”

“Mmmm,” Danny replies, noncommittally. Steve’s cooking has improved a lot recently, and Danny doesn’t want to look too closely at that, because he can’t remember if it started before or after the whole restaurant thing... but it’s a far cry from the “toss meat on the grill” (or eggs in the microwave, _the horror_ ) approach to cooking.

When it becomes obvious that Danny’s nodding off, Steve sends him to bed.

“I’ll be out here, buddy, so I’ll wrangle Charlie in the morning, you sleep as long as you need to, alright?”

Some really irksome voice in his head suggests Danny should protest, but he simply nods, gratefully, and tells himself he’ll make it up to Steve later.

“Night Danno.”

“Night, babe. Thank you... for, everything.”

Steve smirks in response and waves Danny off to bed.

But Danny doesn’t sleep for long before he’s gagging on his coughs. It’s only one or two of the really bad ones before Steve materializes at his bedside, holding out one of those plastic medicine cups, and Danny starts to object, but Steve says “Take the damn medicine, Daniel.” And he does. And he sleeps better after that, though fitfully, and after glaring a hole in the ceiling for what feels like an hour, he gets up and wanders out to the living room. Steve’s awake, and watching him as he nears.

“You should try being more upright. Come here, lean against me.”

And Steve sits back against the arm of the sofa, legs out on a pillow on the coffee table, making room for Danny next to his chest. Danny hesitates. Steve just gestures to him, and he caves. And Steve’s right, and he knows upright is better, but he doesn’t want to cough on Steve, and he does a couple times, but then he sinks into the warmth and the unbelievable comfort of Steve’s solid chest... and he swallows around that lump in his throat again, and it’s sore from the coughing, and the tickle is driving him mad, but he sighs in relief because Steve’s arms wrap around him, and he thinks _this_ is the way to get better. If only they could bottle this feeling... he’d buy a whole case.

Danny wakes up a few times, and is lulled back to sleep by the steady rise and fall of Steve’s breathing. Then, in the light of morning, he wakes to find himself propped up by pillows, the smell of coffee—only just making it through his congested nose—and something maybe cinnamon? coming from the kitchen. He wants to get up and go see, but his body says _just don’t_ , so he stays put, resettling himself within the cushions and pulling the blanket more cozily around him. 

He thinks he drifts back off, but maybe he’s just slightly delirious for a bit, and then Steve and Charlie make their way out to him, a tray of mugs and plates loaded with fresh, hot crumb cake... and seriously, Steven, after all the talk about real food and not too much sugar? But it smells a little bit like home, and Danny’s heart pounds softly in his chest. Which is probably just that sick, heavy chest thing anyway, but then Charlie says he helped make the crumb topping, and Danny hope the germs all baked out, because if Steve gets sick he’s going to feel so guilty. And Steve reads that thought in Danny’s expression and whispers “Stop worrying” when he hands Danny his mug of coffee... which he’s spiked, bless him, with whisky, and doesn’t that make everything feel just that little bit better.

While they eat, Charlie introduces Steve to his favorite scenes from the Scooby-Doo movies they’ve been watching, and fortunately Steve is used to making big leaps, because there’s no way that doesn’t get confusing, all the jumping around. Or maybe that’s just Danny’s sick-fogged brain that can’t keep up... because Steve doesn’t seem to mind at all. 

At some point Danny drifts back off, and when he wakes, the boys are playing quietly in Charlie’s room. Thinking to himself how lucky he is—and not bothering to clarify if he means “to have such a well-behaved child” or something about the taller one—Danny hits the shower for a nice steam which helps clear the gunk out but leaves him feeling drained.

Collapsing on his bed, he must fall asleep, and when he wakes, he sees that someone’s covered him with a blanket and set out a dose of medicine, which he takes gratefully. He’s sitting up, checking his phone and sees a message from Rachel, asking how Charlie’s doing, and if she should come get him later. Danny knows he should let her, but then he thinks, no, I’m not ready to let go of this little microcosm of the life I actually want, so he writes back why doesn’t she take tomorrow to rest and she can pick him up for school Monday morning. 

_Why are you being so nice?_ She writes back, and Danny’d feel stung by that, but he’s too achy to bother. 

_Because_ , he thinks, _this is hard to do alone_ , and no one should have to do that, no one should have to be sick alone... and that’s when it hits him, that he doesn’t want to be alone... and that maybe he doesn’t have to be anymore. 

_Because_ , he writes instead, _I can’t fix everything, but this I can do_. It’s as close to an admission as he’s come, and it’s probably the fault of the cold meds, but he knows it’s true.

There’s a long pause before she writes back, and when she does it’s just: _Okay. I’ll see you Monday morning, then_. But he thinks it’s better than they’ve done in a while, and it makes him smile.

He’s still smiling when Steve comes in a bit later to check on him.

“Food?”

Danny’s feeling oddly lightheaded, so yeah, food’s probably a good idea.

“You up for coming out to the kitchen, or should Charlie and I join you in here?”

Possibly it’s just that Danny’s got that congestion-drainage-tummy thing going on, and the heavy-headed thing too, but not moving sounds nice... and the idea of having his boys with him in this little bubble of temporary domestic bliss appeals to some deep, needy part of himself that he maybe doesn’t want to admit but can’t entirely refuse, so he nods and evidently Steve was ready for that because he’s back in mere moments with trays for each of them, plates and bowls of foods according to their health levels—sandwich from leftovers for Steve, soup for Danny, and for Charlie, a little of each. Charlie’s introduced Steve to the cranberry ginger ale, and they each have a glass of that, but Danny also has a mug of tea, and somehow they all fit on the bed and eat their food, and when they’re done and Steve clears the trays, he comes back with popsicles—cherry for him, grape for Charlie, and orange for Danny.

“He said it was your favorite,” Steve explains as he hands it to Danny, and his smile tells Danny he’s had the same thought Danny’d had when Steve said cherry was his. And it’s just soup and popsicles, and possibly the cold medicine or just that stupid thick head you get from being sick, but Danny feels a little too happy about it all.

Charlie convinces them to hang out in his room for a bit, and Danny makes a note to clean all his toys, but the fire truck has some rescue work to do, and the city needs a little re-organizing, and of course Steve still drives like that when it’s a toy car, of course he fucking does.

They make it all the way through their favorite of the movies after, and Steve, who was terrifyingly deficient in Scooby-Doo-isms at the beginning manages to pick up on a whole lot, and he seems to really enjoy it, and Danny’s pretty sure he’s not just being nice about it. He isn’t at all sure what to call what happens next, though, because he and Charlie wind up napping together on the sofa, and when they wake, Steve’s cleaned up the tissues and wrappers and dishes and evidently started dinner, and Danny can’t place the smell but he knows it, and it’s sheer comfort.

Steve catches Danny’s look and doesn’t bother hiding the smirk. He tilts his head toward the kitchen. “Chicken and dumplings,” he says. “Had to use up the leftovers.” As if that fully explained why he was spending his Saturday cleaning Danny’s house and cooking comfort food for Danny and his kid. Danny almost wants to ask just that. _Why?_ But his tummy swims uneasily and he swallows hard and agrees to just ignore it for now.

Charlie’s never had chicken and dumplings, because it’s another of those comfort food things you want only when you’re too sick to make it, so Danny never has, and he thinks maybe it’ll be a textural thing Charlie won’t like, but he loves them (or maybe he’s just so infatuated with Crazy Uncle Steve that he’d eat anything he made for him) and Danny does too, and it’s all feeling like a little too much, or maybe that’s just Danny feeling flushed from the cold, cheeks warm, head foggy, heart a little too fast. Being sick and being in love, Danny realizes, feel remarkably similar sometimes.

They eat at the kitchen table, then they bundle together on the sofa, mugs of steaming things in their hands, blankets and pillows fluffed and laundered or switched out by Steve during his cleaning spree, and they watch something not-Scooby-Doo, but animated and slightly surreal and sweet, and Charlie and Steve take turns pausing the movie and talking about it, while Danny rolls his eyes at them, but he’s warm, here, on the sofa, between his boys—Charlie resting his head against Danny’s chest when he’s not turning in his seat to face Steve for a discussion of the characters or music or plot, Steve’s arm wrapped behind Danny’s neck along the back of the sofa, close enough that he could reach out and pat Charlie on the head if he wanted—and he thinks this would be nice, even nicer, to have every Saturday night. Which is fantasy talk, he knows that. But it’s compelling fantasy talk, deeply compelling. It feels like it sets something on fire somewhere so deep he didn’t know it was there, and as it starts to burn, and spreads outward, the light it casts inside him makes things he’s known but not admitted seem so clear, so bright, that he can’t imagine them fading back into the shadows after. And that’s a terrifying thought, that _should_ be a terrifying thought, and maybe that heavy, thick, slow, muted sick feeling is anchoring him, or maybe it’s the absence of the usual 14 tabs open and running in the background, but it’s not anything other than simply, plainly, utterly... just _there_.

After the movie’s done, Charlie convinces Steve to do a round of car races in his bedroom, and he ropes Danny in as his co-pilot, and it strikes Danny how like a child Steve can be sometimes, and also how good he is with Charlie, how good he’d been with Grace when she was little—how wonderful he’s been with her as she’s grown, and there’s this moment Danny has, of panic, of heartbreak, this sharp pang of _Steve should have this for his own_ , and Danny swears Steve reads that look in his eyes, and something passes behind his expression that Danny can’t really read, but he thinks he knows what it means just the same.

Danny gets Charlie in a normal bath, none of that feel better bubbles, Danno, I’m all better now, can we go surfing tomorrow? And Danny says maybe next weekend, once I’m better, and Charlie says okay, but Uncle Steve sure is fun isn’t he, Danno? And Danny says, yeah, he is, buddy. He really is. And while Danny reads Charlie a bedtime story (only interrupted a few times with coughing), Steve showers—and how did Danny not notice that Steve brought a bag with change of clothes and toiletries? And once Charlie’s sleeping, Danny comes out and finds Steve on the sofa, reading his book, and like it’s the most natural thing in the world he goes and sits next to him, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder, Steve’s arm coming up around him, holding him close, making him feel warm and safe and happier than he thinks he has any business feeling. But he doesn’t want to think about that, just wants to enjoy it. So he does.

After a while, Steve closes his book. And Danny hates that it feels like it breaks the spell he thinks he’s under, whatever this is Steve’s been... weaving... out of this unreal time of popsicles and playing cars and sleeping on the sofa. Together. He wants to reach out and somehow hold it back, keep it from breaking just yet. Just one more night, he thinks. A few hours more to linger under the hazy thick-headed belief that this could be real... _is_ real.

“You should go sleep in my bed,” is what he says instead. Because sometimes what Danny’s best at is ruining his chances at what he really wants.

He feels, rather than hears, Steve’s amused chuckle. “That’s not exactly how I saw it, when I imagined being in your bed.”

The thing Danny hates most about being sick is that horrible heavy feeling in your heart. It scared him as a kid, and it still does. This one’s that awful sideways beating thing that makes him feel off-balance. Plus, he can’t swallow.

“What?”

Steve sighs. Sets his book aside, brings his hand up to his face and rubs at his stubble. He’s been letting it go, longer and longer, and Danny has been giving him a hard time about it, of course, because that’s what they do... but he thinks it suits him.

“I’m really not interested in being in your bed if you’re not in it as well, Danny. I’d have thought that was at least a little bit obvious by now.”

Danny thinks now’s when he should sit back, sit up, look Steve in the eye—and his head is swimming, the congestion draining, and he’s unsteady and doesn’t think he could sit upright anyway. But he also doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to move, because he knows that if he does, this spell is almost certainly going to break, and Steve won’t really have said that, won’t have meant it, not like Danny needs him to have.

Steve holds him closer, totally unbothered by his lack of response. “Just sleep, buddy. I’m not going anywhere.”

Slowly, Danny’s heart rate calms, the swirly dizziness subsides, he figures out how to swallow again, and with Steve’s reassuring warmth at his side, he drifts off to something that vaguely resembles sleep.

Several times in the night he wakes, and some of them, Steve’s asleep, some of them he’s awake. When his cough gets bad, Steve gets up and gets him more medicine. Once he suggests a shower, but Danny feels too weak to stand for that long.

“One of us needs to be well rested,” Danny says at some point. “Charlie is going to be back to normal in the morning, and someone’s going to have to deal....” He knows it won’t be him, knows if it was him alone he’d be bribing Charlie with popsicles and sweeter treats to play quietly inside while he napped. Knows it’s possible. Hates doing it.

“I’ll be fine, Danny. I have a plan. It will be okay. Stop making this harder than it needs to be.” He settles Danny back against his side, holding him a little too tightly, almost as though he’s restraining him, just a little. And Danny gives in. Doesn’t have much of a choice, really, but he knows he wants to give in, and that makes it harder, just a little. But the medicine kicks in, and the pressure from Steve’s hold on him grounds him, anchors him, stills him enough that he finds he can let go... trusting somehow something in that connection, that contact, and he’s not sure what that means, probably just some incoherent sickness rambling or something, but it feels kind of nice, and as he’s almost asleep he hears Steve say something else, something about that not being so hard, and he sighs, and dreams.

Danny’s dreams tend to be straightforward, and they tend to be linked with his day, and usually with whatever happened last, and this one’s no different. It’s soft and swirling, a little bit dizzying, and it feels thick, like he’s underwater, and everything’s warm and soothing and feels... just, nice. It’s kind of like being in a bowl of mashed potatoes, he thinks. Simple, straightforward comfort. No frills, no pretense, nothing difficult about it, it just is what it seems, and it would be ridiculous to think otherwise.

And that, somehow, as he wakes and it stays with him in that lingering sleepy way dreams sometimes have, _that_ , he thinks, shows him some kind of way forward with this. And he knows he’s not good at it, that sleepy kind of acceptance of what is in front of him, what’s being offered. But when he’s still sick, he thinks he can do it more naturally, and maybe he can learn something from that. Because he knows that this need isn’t fading, not when he gets well, not ever. Which really is more his way of allowing that it’s actually been there, all along, and he’s been really good at not seeing it, not admitting it, not permitting it, but he can’t—no, _won’t_ —do that any longer. Not after this. Because to have had it and then to go on without it, well, that’d be like never getting better... and he thinks it would slowly start to kill him. Knows it would.

Steve’s awake, but still sitting with him. Charlie’s either still sleeping or playing so quietly they can’t hear.

“I’m... I’m gonna go shower,” Danny says, as he sits back away from Steve. “Will you... bring me coffee?”

He knows it was the right thing to ask, when he sees Steve’s grin. “That wasn’t so hard, was it.”

Ordinarily he’d say something like _Shut up and just bring me coffee you jerk_ , but it doesn’t feel quite right this morning. Instead he smiles. “No, it wasn’t that hard.” Which of course is a lie, it was really fucking hard, it’s always hard to ask for help. But maybe it was a little bit easier than he’d thought it would be, and that means a whole lot to him. 

He’s standing under the too-hot water, just letting it run over him, not up for doing much more, hoping it’ll be enough, when Steve comes in, opens the shower door, hands him a travel mug of coffee—the lid so the water stays out, of course, he thinks of everything. As Danny reaches for it, he catches Steve watching him, looking, admiring.

“Stop it, I’m sick.”

“You look just fine to me,” Steve replies, making a tiny bit of an attempt to hide his smirk.

Danny closes the shower door. Even as sick as he feels, he’s not immune to being found attractive.

“Charlie wants pancakes. You okay if I make those? I know that’s your thing with him....”

He’s almost tempted to say _no_ , because what if Charlie likes Steve’s better, but pancakes actually sound really nice, and not making them himself sounds even nicer, and the three of them sitting together in the kitchen eating them sounds like the most wonderful Sunday morning thing and even his sore nose and raw throat and heavy chest and gurgling stomach are not going to dampen this feeling that’s spreading like the heat from the shower, filling his whole body like it’ll burn the cold out, and he thinks it just might.

“Sounds great, babe,” he says. “Sounds great.”

And they are great, and maybe they’re a bit better than Danny’s, but that’s mostly because food always tastes better when someone makes it for you, and watching Steve in the kitchen, Danny thinks, could be his new favorite weekend activity, and having Steve bring him coffee refills so he doesn’t have to get up definitely is on his list now of favorite things, and sitting in his warm kitchen, watching Steve and Charlie wash the dishes isn’t the kind of thing that should fill him as full with joy as it does.

Steve’s brought some kind of balance board thing that’s meant to help you get the feel for surfing while still on dry land, so the boys head out to the back deck to play around with it, and Danny thinks he should be grateful that Steve has that more active side in common with both his kids, so that he can sit, bundled up on his favorite deck chair, travel mug of coffee with special stuff added by Steve—he said just whiskey, but Danny’s sure he added sugar and cinnamon as well, and that might be going on his list too. Special coffee drinks, Danny thinks, are probably a great way to his heart—and yes, by extension his bed—and if Steve was serious about that, well. He’s off to a pretty good start this particular Sunday.

Danny’s feeling considerably better, if only in that _I’ve kind of settled into not feeling great and reached a level of comfort with it for now_ kind of way. It never lasts long, and he knows soon he’ll be chomping at the bit to be all the way better, and he knows, ugh, he knows he gets seriously crabby when he gets to that point. But for now, it’s just kind of hazy and lovely and sweet, and he thinks the boys can exhaust themselves and then maybe they can all cuddle, which is a little more Danny’s speed.

They do, of course. And Danny thinks he’s lucky that both his boys love to cuddle almost as much as he does, and they flank him on the sofa, trays of food on the coffee table, and they watch more Scooby-Doo, and Steve’s played around with sandwich stuff for him and Charlie so they make kind of ridiculous sandwiches. Danny eats some but mostly sticks with his soup, and of course they finish with popsicles—Steve’s really getting into the fact that they each prefer one of the three flavors, even Charlie’s realized how sweet that is—and Charlie falls asleep at Danny’s side after, and while Steve clears things away, Danny thinks about what it would be like, for this to be his life on a regular Tuesday, not just on a Sunday when he’s sick.

There’s more race cars and rescue fire trucks and action figures jumping from rooftop to rooftop and tricky villains with explosives, and it’s a little too like real life for Danny’s taste, but Charlie loves it, and Steve of course loves it, but Danny loves watching them, from the safety of Charlie’s bed, mug of tea in hand... heart no longer thick and heavy but he must be getting better because it feels lighter and soft and something he wants to call _hopeful_.

Dinner proves that no matter the size, Williams boys have a direct line to what they want when Steve’s as smitten as he is like this, because pizza is suddenly deemed the perfect “almost better” meal, and red wine is full of antioxidants and garlic bread has garlic, so.... The dining room table is taken over with pepperoni pizza, garlic knots with dipping sauce, hot wings (clears the sinuses), and salad, of course. It’s a bit rowdy and Danny’s still a bit lacking in strength, but the food does seem to help, or maybe it’s just that it’s so connected with love and comfort in his mind that it just fills him up anyway, but it feels good, really good, and that’s what matters.

He does bath and bedtime stuff with Charlie while Steve cleans up, and it’s three bedtime stories tonight, partly because Charlie’s over-excited from his day, and partly because Danny knows he’s going home tomorrow and he doesn’t really want it to end.

“I like having Uncle Steve here,” Charlie says, as he’s finally starting to drift off. “Don’t you, Danno?”

Danny thinks _More than you know, kiddo_ , but he just smiles and brushes the hair back from Charlie’s forehead. “Yeah, he’s useful to have around sometimes,” he admits.

Charlie yawns and snuggles down in bed. “I think he likes it, too.” And he’s asleep. Leaving Danny slightly stunned with that observation, which of course is true, but hearing it from Charlie... somehow it means something more.

Steve’s waiting for him on the sofa, mug of something steaming on the coffee table, and it’s almost become a ritual... Steve’s reading his book, he’ll hold Danny awhile, then they’ll sleep. And this... this could be his every night, he thinks. And it just seems too perfect, too ideal, it can’t possibly be real, can’t be something he can actually have. Can it?

“Charlie likes having you here,” Danny whispers after a while, when he can’t not say it any longer. “And he thinks you like it too....”

Steve puts his book down, draws Danny in a tighter hold. “He’s right. And I’m glad.”

Danny holds his breath for what feels like too long. Wants to say it. Knows it doesn’t _need_ saying, but knows it will mean a lot if he can. “I do, too.” He finally admits. “I like you being here. I like you making me coffee in the morning, and making me tea at night. I like you playing with Charlie and watching TV with us and yes, I like you cleaning up after our messes, and making us food. I like you bringing me medicine and helping me sleep.” It’s like once he’s started he just can’t stop, and it feels so amazing to admit it all, let it all off his chest, and he feels himself getting closer and closer to something as he goes, but he’s not sure what, just knows it’s where he needs to be.

The rise and fall of Steve’s chest has sped up while Danny’s been talking, his breaths coming in short, shallow dips now, and Danny thinks he knows what he’ll see if he looks, what that expression will be... but he’s wrong, so wrong, because it’s even more beautiful than he’d imagined, when he finally caves and pulls back to look. Steve looks wrecked, and like it’s Christmas morning, and like he’s saved the day, and like there’s been an explosion, it’s every expression all at once, and it’s the most remarkable thing Danny’s ever seen.

“Do you think... I mean, it’ll just be sleep. But, would you sleep in my bed with me tonight?”

And from Steve’s reaction you’d think he’s asked him if he’d like a year’s supply of explosives or something, because his face lights up, and he gets that grin—the one Danny’d thought only happened around really dangerous plans... and maybe this _is_ a really dangerous plan. But it’s the only plan Danny cares about right now. The only one he wants to see happen. The only one that matters.

Danny winds up having to prop himself up with extra pillows, but it’s worth it, to be comparatively comfortable, and spacious, although Steve stays right up next to him all night long, which makes Danny smile this inward, probably really smug smile, and maybe Steve’s ego is catching because Danny sure feels like his has grown, knowing this about Steve, having this... _over him_ , he almost wants to say. It occurs to him that it’s always been the case, this power Danny has over Steve, and maybe he’s been dumb to not see it before now, to not use it before now, but it’s like it’s been let out of the box now and there’s just no putting it back. And he doesn’t mind at all. Thinks it’s probably one of the better things that’s ever happened to him. And maybe he doesn’t sleep as well as he’d like, but every time he wakes up and feels Steve next to him, he grins, and his heart lifts, and he thinks... things can only get better. And when he dreams of being chased by monsters, he finds explosions litter the way, and he escapes them again and again, and at the end, there’s this really fantastic sandwich waiting. And a cup of coffee big enough to swim in.

The mug Steve brings him, in bed, in the morning, isn’t quite as large, but it’s even better because it’s real. And so are the scrambled eggs and toast Steve makes him and Charlie, and the lunch Steve packs for Charlie would satisfy Shaggy (well, as a small snack, anyway), and it’s that warm kitchen feeling again, and Danny wants to bottle it up, and have a case of it in the pantry next to the bottles of _snuggling on the sofa_.

When Rachel comes to pick Charlie up, Steve’s ready to head to work as well, and they all wave bye, and Rachel gives Danny this look... eyebrows raised, smile a little too knowing... and he knows she’ll ask Charlie about his time with Uncle Steve, knows she’s probably asked it before... wonders if she’ll figure something new out from it this time. Knows _he_ has.

Rachel drives off, and Danny’s heart breaks a little, at the loss of that magical time, but he turns and sees Steve, watching him.

“Get some rest. I’ll be back tonight. Make you dinner, make you tea... draw you a bath.” And Steve kisses him on the forehead, lightly, sweetly, but with a hint of something warmer behind it, and it floods Danny’s insides with this glow, an actual freaking glow, that he swears will clear out some of that crud that’s still lingering, still hanging on.

Danny nods. “Be safe,” he whispers as Steve moves away, toward the truck.

“When am I not?” Steve calls over his shoulder, and Danny’s laugh dissolves into coughing.

He does rest. But he also does probably a little too much in the way of cleaning. Wanting the germs gone, out, banished. He takes a long shower after, then settles on the sofa with one of the pot pies and a glass of ginger ale and the remote. He’s his whole queue to pick from, and no idea what to watch if it’s not Scooby-Doo, so he winds up leaving it play, not really paying attention, more just needing the noise to balance out the fact that the house is now empty, horribly, achingly empty. He naps. And has a popsicle—it’s not the same when he’s alone. He does some laundry, and cleans the tub, and exhausts himself in a coughing fit, and makes some tea—realizes he doesn’t do it as well as Steve and he can’t quite understand why.

Steve comes home early, and that makes Danny terrifyingly happy. From the look of him, it’s been a bit of a rough day, and he gestures, rather than speaks, but Danny knows it’s _I’m not even going to talk till after I’ve showered_. He knows the feeling. Danny brings him a beer, hands it to him in the shower, then goes and sits on his bed, to wait.

When Steve comes out, slightly longer than Navy shower length later, he’s a smile on his face, towel wrapped around his waist, still dripping water.

“Thank you for that.”

“The beer?”

“Yeah, that was nice.”

“I thought I recognized the expression.” Danny pauses. New territory and all. “Wanna talk about your day?”

Steve chuckles. “Yeah not really. I’d rather hear about yours.”

Danny starts to laugh, but it of course becomes a cough. “I don’t make tea as well as you do,” seems a fitting lead in.

“You did too much,” Steve observes, just from looking at Danny’s face.

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

“I was gonna make dinner....”

“I’ve got these pot pies, they’re not bad. How about I heat those up, and you can rest. We can... rest together.” He thinks Steve’ll protest, but he doesn’t. He just nods and starts to dry off. Danny watches, watches those hard-used muscles flex and relax, tense and go lax, watches the drips of water run down Steve’s chest, watches as Steve notices him watching.

“Hey,” Steve mutters. “I’ve had a rough day....”

Danny smirks. “You look fine to me.”

Steve’s eyes flutter closed, and Danny can tell he’s fighting with himself—although that’s probably partly because Danny’s fighting with himself as well. As if to underscore the tension, Danny coughs, and it’s ragged still, and it breaks the moment. Almost.

“Soon,” Steve whispers, and pulls his sweats on, looking away from Danny, as though not looking will help. Danny’s pretty sure it won’t.

In the kitchen, Steve grabs another beer, then makes tea for Danny, while Danny puts the pot pies in the oven. They lounge on the sofa, Steve up against the arm of it, Danny nestled between his legs, sprawled against Steve’s chest, and Steve has the beer in one hand, and his other hand’s running through Danny’s hair.

“I like it like this, loose, not slicked back.”

“Hmmph. I like it when you _have_ hair.” It’s peevish, he knows.

“Want me to grow it out?”

Danny sighs and leans more solidly against Steve. He does, but he’s not sure he wants to admit that. Not sure he’s ready for all that would mean, all it would imply, and it’s just hair, and it’s stupid. But yeah, he does. He wants Steve to grow it out... wants Steve to grow it out _for him_. And that feels impossibly romantic, stupidly sappy. And yet, he’s growing attached to the notion at a ridiculous rate.

“I would, you know,” Steve says, almost directly in Danny’s ear, and that doesn’t make him shiver. “I only cut it because I was bored. But if you wanted me to....” He presses a soft kiss to Danny’s ear. “I’d do that for you.”

And it seems to Danny they’re not talking about hair anymore. He leans into Steve’s press of lips, longs for it to be more. Knows, now, knows it will be, soon. But not soon enough. “I know,” he says, and he tries to swallow a cough, but it comes through just a little. He’s getting better though, he can tell. And that’s when he realizes that Steve’s not gotten sick yet, and alright, that surprises him. Steve’s a tough guy, and he takes pain better than most people Danny’s known, but he does tend to get whatever’s going around—maybe a mild version of it, but he does tend to pick everything up just a little.

“How’d you manage to not get this,” Danny asks, after he gets the cough out the rest of the way and is swallowing down that rawness.

“I was motivated to stay healthy,” Steve says, softly, to Danny’s earlobe, which he pulls between his lips.

“And I wasn’t?” He asks, surprised by that. (Not the bite on his ear, that doesn’t surprise him. Of course Steve’s bitey.)

It’s like he can hear the smug grin form on Steve’s face. He knows that look well enough, maybe he _can_ hear it, maybe he just knows. “Mmmm, dunno, Danny... were you? Or were you maybe motivated by something else?”

Danny almost asks what, but he sees Steve has a point. Right from the beginning, he’d wondered about having Steve bring them stuff, having Steve help out... he’d thought that had been idle musing, but probably it was something more... maybe it was even more than he imagined. He’s pretty sure _this_ isn’t what he imagined, sitting in Steve’s arms, his ear being gnawed on, but maybe... maybe that’s just been too much a thought for too long, without really being an intentional thought. Well, he thinks. It _did_ work.... And, _yeah, it was worth it_.

“You think we would have got here without something like me being sick?”

He feels Steve’s laugh as a breath of air on his wet ear, and shudders. “Probably not. Maybe. I dunno. Eventually?”

“Yeah,” Danny exhales some kind of worry about it, that it might never have happened, this final wearing away of whatever they’d been holding back from for so many years. That spell, he’d called it, that Steve had been weaving, these past few days... he knows now it won’t break, that instead what’s broken is this other thing, the holding back. “Eventually.”

“I don’t mean to sound impatient, having waited so long as it is, but do you think you’ll be better soon? Better _enough_...?” Steve’s put his empty bottle down on the floor, and now he’s got both hands on Danny. One still in his hair, like he just can’t leave it alone, the other now’s running up and down his arm, lightly, teasingly, and Danny really wouldn’t have pegged Steve as being so subtle in his touches. Up till now they’ve been anything but. Strong arms around him when they’re out, tight hugs, solid leg pressing against his.... This touch is new. It’s soft, it’s _asking_ , not demanding. Danny loves it.

“You know they say sex is great cold medicine....” Danny’s teasing, and he shouldn’t. He feels Steve’s reaction.

“I _can’t_....” Steve gasps. “I can’t do that without kissing you. _I’d end up kissing you_.”

And _that..._. Danny hates this lump in his throat, the one he can’t swallow around. Because _that_. The words, the meaning, the feeling behind it. Any doubt that may have been left is gone, with those words. And he almost thinks _fuck it, I can’t wait any longer_. But he knows he can. And should. And will. Because he doesn’t want Steve to have to go through this cold—but it’s not a selfless thing, that wish. It’s so purely damn selfish. Because once he starts, with the kissing, not to mention the other stuff, he knows, stopping is not going to come easy.

Still, they sit far too close, and they eat their pot pies and some leftover pizza as well, because frozen pot pies are okay when it’s just you, but somehow, when it’s two of you, they’re just not quite enough, and Danny wonders how many other things have standards like that... things you’ll put up with on your own, to get by, that don’t quite make the grade when there’s someone else, someone who counts... someone who matters. Like cereal for dinner, he thinks, is probably something he won’t get away with, under Steve’s watch. And that’s a funny thought to have, he decides, and maybe it’s still the cold messing with his brain functions, but he thinks he likes that idea. It feels important. It feels... right. And he’s not going to try to understand that, doesn’t think he needs to. He’s pretty sure that all he needs to understand right now, all he needs to know, is just this, right here, this strange and powerful and sweet and kind and wonderful man at his side... and that he’s not going anywhere he can’t go with Danny. And Danny knows that, doesn’t need to be told that, which is something stunningly new for him, and yet it’s not, because he’s known that about Steve from the very beginning, Steve’s proven that, since day one. Well, other than sneaking off to go try and save the world a couple times, but they’re past that now. They’re solidly into this new phase, the one where the things that matter are the flavors of popsicles and the way you make tea, and bringing each other beers and coffees in the shower, and that, Danny thinks, is just about the most wonderful way of looking at it he’s ever seen. And yeah, he’s still sick, so maybe that’s part of it. Sure. His head’s still full of crud and he knows he’s not at normal operating levels. But he’s really not sure that matters. Because he knows this is everything, and he knows Steve thinks so too.

He almost gives in, at night when they get in bed. He looks at Steve and just can’t imagine not kissing him any longer. And from the look on his face, Steve knows it, and he pulls him close, holds on tight, whispers “Soon” like it means so much more than just _when you’re better I’ll kiss you_. And maybe it does. Maybe he means they’ll retire, maybe he means they’ll move in together, maybe he means a whole lot more. And he doesn’t want to think about it and he does... he wants mostly to just be here, in this bubble they still have, before real life comes flooding back, thinks if he can hold on to just a little of this feeling and drag it forward with him.... Which maybe he can, and maybe it won’t even be a hard thing, maybe he’s making it harder than it needs to be. He knows he tends to do that.

“Shhhh,” Steve whispers, as though he’s felt that. “Just sleep and get better, and I’ll bring you coffee in the morning.”

And that, Danny thinks, is quite possibly the best declaration of love he’s ever heard. And he does sleep, and Steve does bring him coffee in the morning.... And many, many morning after, most of those with kisses as well.

And to think... it started with popsicles.


End file.
